


Two Bowls, Two Spoons

by mothjons



Series: The Sea Calls Me Home [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Historical AU, M/M, Mermaid!Jon, and also being soup, badly quoting Shakespeare, mermaid au, the romanticism of making soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29883957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothjons/pseuds/mothjons
Summary: “I feel like soup,” said Jon, leaning his arms over the side of the metal basin. The tip of his tail slapped noisily against the wooden floor. “I look like soup.”“You don’t look like soup,” said Martin, turning away from the counter to raise a brow in Jon’s direction. “If you were, you’d be a very plain soup. Got no stock.”Jon furrowed his brow. “Why does that feel insulting?”-----A small snapshot into Jon and Martin's life after the events of The Sea Calls me Home. Can be read as a stand alone ficlet, and contains no spoilers for the main story!
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: The Sea Calls Me Home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197191
Comments: 24
Kudos: 155





	Two Bowls, Two Spoons

**Author's Note:**

> what????? the boys are back??? the boys are back and being soft and not being put through so, so, so much by me???? I didn't know that was an option ... I missed them :)

_1928, December 2 nd_

“I feel like soup,” said Jon, leaning his arms over the side of the metal basin. The tip of his tail slapped noisily against the wooden floor. “I look like soup.”

“You don’t look like soup,” said Martin, turning away from the counter to raise a brow in Jon’s direction. “If you were, you’d be a very plain soup. Got no stock.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Why does that feel insulting?”

Martin snorted, turning fully now to look at Jon, leaning his back against the counter, and crossing his arms over his chest. The basin Martin had bought took up most of the kitchen – a wide, slightly rusty thing, with wooden handles, and embossed with the logo of some company he didn’t recognise. The idea had originally been a joke, one night, years back, sitting out over the pier – Martin complaining about the cold, and Jon complaining about his complaining.

“If I just put you in a bucket,” Martin had said, “you could sit in the cottage. Fill it with water, and all that – could be comfy. I’d be warm, anyway.”

Jon had pulled a face. “I’m not – I’m not sitting in a bucket, Martin. That’s ridiculous. Just wear a coat.”

When Martin had come across the basin in the village, tucked under the table of some travelling merchant who had set up during the weekly market, he’d bought it immediately. Carrying Jon into the cottage, Jon’s arms wrapped loosely around his neck, Martin’s arms looped under his tail, he had taken one look at the thing, and immediately sighed.

“That’s just a larger bucket,” he’d said. “My point still stands.”

“Just entertain me.”

Now, Jon crossed his arms over the lid of the tub, resting his chin onto the curve of his hands. “I think I’d be a wonderful soup,” he muttered, almost begrudgingly.

Martin rolled his eyes, and stepped forward, pulling one of the kitchen chairs over with him as he did. He placed it beside the basin, and fell down into it, one hand coming up to card through Jon’s hair. Silver speckled the blackness, wiry strands that fell across his face, over where the lines by his eyes ran deeper, and the skin around his cheeks softer. Martin knew that time had marked him in a similar way; everything lighter, and looser, and softer. The days were much the same.

It was odd, how much he loved it. For a long time, he had fought against time – there was never enough, there was always too much, it never agreed with him. But now – now he could just exist alongside it, peaceful in the passage.

“You’re making that face again,” said Jon, his hand coming up to catch Martin’s, slotting their fingers together, and lowering them to the lid. “The melancholy one.”

Martin wrinkled his nose. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Jon prodded at his face. “You’re allowed to, I was just remarking.”

Martin smiled, and lent forward, catching Jon’s lips with his own. He pulled back, and cocked his head to the side. “Alright, yeah – a little bit. Good melancholy, though.”

“Good melancholy?” prompted Jon.

Martin nodded, and kissed the top of Jon’s head, before rising to stand, moving back towards the counter, where the forgotten carrots lay. “Just thinking about how old you look.”

“You’re not so spritely yourself these days,” said Jon. “I think I heard your back go last time you tried to pick me up.”

“Oi – leave off,” said Martin. “I can still carry you fine. And I meant it in a good way, you know.”

Even with his back turned, Martin could see the image of Jon; raising one eyebrow, and leaning forward against the lip of the basin. “And what good way is that?”

Martin shrugged. “Just feel lucky to see you get old, is all.”

“You don’t think I look odd – different?”

“Well, sure,” said Martin, casting a glance over to Jon as he chopped the carrots, “but having a tail will do that.” He heard Jon snort, and Martin smiled to himself. “I think you look beautiful, Jon. A few grey hairs won’t change that.”

Jon hummed. _“Age cannot wither, nor custom stale.”_

“Where did you get your hands on Shakespeare?”

“That big trunk of books,” said Jon, “the one you bought a few years back. Sort of, uh – raided it.”

“That explains the water damage then.”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry.

Martin rolled his eyes. “What else you got then? Any more quotes.”

There was a small pause. _“I found you as a morsel cold upon Dead Caesar’s trencher.”_

Martin turned, pulling a face.

“What?”

“Just thought you’d quote something more, I don’t know – romantic.”

“Like what?”

“Like – ” Martin took in a long breath, looking upwards in thought. _“Eternity was in our lips and in our eyes.”_ Jon looked unimpressed, and Martin sighed. “It sounds better when you say stuff, I don’t have the – the cadence you have.”

“Oh, yes,” he said dryly, “the thespian, that’s me.”

Martin chuckled. “Get you performing down at the rocks pools, for all the crabs and what not.”

“Even the one who has it out for you?”

Martin let out a long defeated groan, and ran his hand through his hair. “Look, I know it’s the same one – it can’t be a coincidence. He targets me, specifically. Getting nipped hurts, you know

“Oh, I know,” said Jon. “But you could also just, and bear with me here – not shove your hand into rockpools.”

“I thought they were supposed to be more scared of me, anyway” said Martin, intoning with a hiss. “He hunts me - wouldn’t be surprised if the thing turned up in my bloody bed.”

“Oh, I hope not.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m going to throw you back into the ocean,” muttered Martin, to which Jon replied by sinking lower into the tub, his eyes peeking over the water with a scowl. Martin tossed the carrots into the pot that was gently simmering beside him, and they sunk easily into the aroma of herbs and spices. He ran his hands down his trousers, and fell back into the chair beside Jon, placing both his hands on either side of his temples, and running his hands through Jon’s hair. Jon let out a small, contented hum as he did, sinking even further into the water, his eyes fluttering shut. Martin let out a breath, a laugh on the end of the sound. “You’re going to have to scoot up a little here, Jon. Can’t do much of anything with you fully submerged.”

Jon placed his hands on the side of the tub, and pulled his torso upwards, his head falling backwards easily into Martin’s hands. His hair was shorter now – still far longer than Martin’s, but the shortest it had been since they’d met. It’d been Martin’s handiwork, after watching Jon splutter and fight his way out of his own sodden tangle of curls. It sat just below his shoulders, and bounced up into thick waves upon the few occasions he was away from the water long enough for it to dry. The ends were sodden, and slipped easily between Martin’s fingers as he twisted them into coils, before splitting them as his palms worked easily against Jon’s neck. Jon was already beginning to sink back into the water – Martin often joked that Jon was part jellyfish, with how he dissolved at the first relaxing touch.

“You should get in,” murmured Jon, “be soup together.”

“It’s December, Jon,” said Martin. “You wouldn’t get me in there in a million years.”

“It’s not that cold.”

“Yes, _but_ you don’t feel the cold.”

“I do,” protested Jon. “Sometimes.”

“When?”

Jon paused for a moment. “Last week.”

“Oh, leave off,” snorted Martin, drawing his hands down across Jon’s shoulders, his hands dipping below the surface of the water to trail them down his arms. He curved forward, resting his chin against the nook of Jon’s neck, pressing a small kiss under his ear.

“How’s the garden?” asked Jon, turning his neck slightly to catch Martin’s eye.

Martin shrugged. “Hardly a bountiful harvest in this weather. I think everyone will pull through for Spring, though. _God_ , I miss the sun.”  
Jon hummed in agreement. “You’ll have forgotten how to swim before it gets warm enough.”

“Like you’d let me,” said Martin, his attention suddenly grabbed by the pot on the stove, threatening to bubble over. He gave Jon’s shoulder a small squeeze, and rose to his feet, stumbling towards the oven, lowering the heat. He peered inside, and, when content nothing was ruined, called out, “dinners ready.”

He pulled two bowls from the cupboard – beautiful ceramic things, with curving blue lines that ran along the inside. They’d been gifts from the farmer up the road, from a Christmas years passed. He ladled the steaming liquid into the bowls, potatoes and carrots bobbing up to the surface, swimming alongside flecks of green herbs. Plopping two spoons inside, he turned back to Jon, kicking the small side table between them, and placing the bowls down.

“Soup for the soup,” he said, lifting his bowl as if it were a toast.

Jon rolled his eyes, but his smile was evident. Martin watched him for a moment, draped over the lip of the basin, eating with practiced care, and wondered, not for the first time, if he’d ever stop feeling as lucky as he did. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed a wee snapshot into their lives after the main story, they deserve to be happy. Comments and kudos are very welcome and loved!!! Come hang out with me on Tumblr @mothjons


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